Outside in the streets, Matthew heard a volley of gunfire, and the sound of windows breaking. He crossed himself, and said, ‘God protect me. And God protect that innocent woman. And God damn you two to hell.’
Bryan said, in a voice loaded with infinite menace, ‘I think it’s time for you to leave now, Mr Monyatta. Joseph and me, we’re not famous for our inexhaustible patience.’
Matthew took one last desperate look at Verna, with the candle-flame dipping and bobbing between her buttocks. Then he edged toward the kitchen door, and out through the living-room. He tugged open the front door and he was out in the hallway, sweating and shaking, before he knew it.
Patrice immediately snatched at his sleeve. ‘So what’s happening?’ he wanted to know. ‘They’re letting her go, what?’
Matthew stared at him, his upper lip beaded with perspiration. ‘I can’t do nothing for you, man. You brought this on yourselves. You let them in, man. You let them in. You don’t have nobody to blame but you.’
He blundered his way along the landing, and started to tromp down the stairs. Patrice hesitated, shocked, and then ran after him.
‘What about Verna?’ he screamed, over the banisters.
‘God keep her safe, that’s all I can tell you.’
‘But what am I supposed to do?’
Matthew stopped halfway down the stairs. ‘They’re going to hurt her, Patrice. They’re going to hurt her in ways you never even thought of.’
‘That’s it! That’s it!’ Patrice screamed. He dragged out his .45 automatic and cocked it. ‘I’m going to blow their goddamned brains out! Bertrand! I’m going to blow their goddamned brains out!’
‘They’ll kill her before you get through the door,’ said Matthew. ‘Believe me, Patrice, you don’t know what you’re up against.’
‘Then what the hell do they want?’ Patrice shrieked down at him.
‘They told you before. They want their money.’
‘I don’t have their money, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Then you’d better find out who does; or else you’d better whip up four hundred and fifty g’s, and whip it up now.’
‘Say what. Where am I going to get that kind of money?’
‘That’s what they want, Patrice.’
‘So what are you doing?’ Patrice demanded. ‘Are you walking out on me, or what? You’re just leaving me here, to deal with these cockroaches all on my own?’
‘Patrice – I want Verna safe and free as much as you do. But there’s nothing more I can do, not here, not unless you find that money.’
‘What about the man? Couldn’t you talk to the man? Listen – we’ll stop the rioting, stop the whole thing.’
‘They say if you bring in the man, they’ll kill her just like that.’
‘So what are you going to do? You’re just going to walk out?’
‘There’s only one thing I can do, and that’s to find out who and what we’re up against here. Then I’ll come back.’
With that, he continued down the stairs.
‘Matthew!’ Patrice howled at him. ‘Matthew, you can’t leave me! I need you, man!’
Matthew gripped the banister rail and roared up at him, ‘They’re here! The white-white men! They’re here! Because of you! You gave them everything they wanted! You gave them everything they needed! And now you’re asking me to save you?’
With that, Matthew hurried heavily downstairs, and was out of the door before Patrice could answer him.
Patrice turned to Bertrand and said, ‘The white-white men? What the hell are the white-white men?’
Bertrand shrugged. ‘I never heard of no white-white men.’
Patrice went up to his apartment door, and beat on it furiously with his fists. ‘You bastards! You lay one finger on my wife, I’m going to ice you bastards!’
There was no reply. Patrice turned to Bertrand and said, ‘Who took that money, man? Where the hell’s that money?’
Bertrand scratched, shrugged. ‘Guess we’d better ask around.’
Patrice smashed his fist onto the banister rail. ‘Whoever took that money, I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them!’
And then Verna started to cry out, ‘Patrice! Patrice! Patrice!’
Just before dawn, Michael saw the cat crawling out of Sissy O’Brien’s insides, yellow-eyed, skinny with human mucus, and snarling, and he woke up screaming.
Victor, who had been dozing on the couch in the living-room, ran into the bedroom to find Michael wedged in between the bed and the wall, pummelling wildly at the wallpaper.
‘Michael!’ he shouted at him. ‘Michael! For Christ’s sake, Michael!’
He caught hold of Michael’s elbow and tried to lift him up, but Michael was struggling too fiercely.
‘Michael!’ he repeated. ‘Michael, listen to me!’
At last, Michael stopped thumping the wall, and turned, and stared up at him. His pupils were pinpricks and his face was frighteningly white.
‘Michael, it’s Victor. Are you okay?’
Slowly, painfully, Michael eased himself up. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, after a while. ‘I just had an experience, that’s all.’
‘An experience? What kind of experience?’
Michael tried to give him awry smile. ‘If you had it, you’d call it a nightmare.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Because of my particular psychological condition ... I virtually experience it. It’s called post-traumatic re-enactment, something like that.’
‘Do you want some coffee?’
Michael nodded. ‘I’m sorry about this. I guess I shouldn’t have come down to the morgue yesterday. Triggered something off.’
‘No problem, forget it. Why don’t you talk to your shrink?’
‘That’s probably a good idea. But I’ll have to see him in person. I have hypnotherapy; and hypnotherapy doesn’t seem to work on the phone.’
Victor looked at his watch. ‘Listen – why don’t I drive down there? I could use some time off. Where did you say he was? Hyannis?’
Detective Ralph Brossard was nodding in front of Genghis Khan when the telephone rang. At first he thought it was a dream, and expected somebody else to answer it. But it went on and on, and at last he opened his eyes and realized where he was and what was happening.
He cleared aside the half-empty boxes of chow mein and chili beef that cluttered the small table next to his La-Z-Boy armchair, and picked up the telephone. ‘I’m not here,’ he said, thickly.
‘Ralph? Ralph, this is Newt.’
‘I just told you, Newt. I’m not here.’
‘Ralph, something weird’s come up.’
Ralph looked around his boxy, brown-wallpapered apartment for cigarettes, but couldn’t see any. Through the curtainless window, he could see the endless flow of early-morning traffic on the John Fitzgerald Expressway, and the gradually greying dawn over Boston Harbor, and in the window itself he could see his own ghostly reflection – even more like Ernest Hemingway now that two days’ suspension from duty had allowed him to grow some stubble.
‘I’ve, er, I’ve had a contact from Patrice Latomba,’ said Newt.
‘Latomba? Are you kidding me? Hold on a minute, Newt, I’ve got to find myself some smokes.’
In spite of Newt’s diminutive protests, Ralph dropped the receiver and collided around the living-room, picking up books and magazines and dropping them down again. At last he found a half-crushed pack of Winston in the narrow green-varnished kitchen, and he bent over the gas ring, eyes narrowed, to light himself one.
He picked up the phone again, blowing smoke. ‘Okay, Newt, I’m with you. What’s this all about?’
‘Patrice Latomba says his wife Verna is being held hostage by two white guys, right in his own apartment.’
‘Shit! Are they crazy?’
‘It doesn’t seem like it. They’ve been there since yesterday morning.’
‘Does he know who they are?’
‘He doesn’t have any idea. But he thinks that you may.’
&n
bsp; ‘How should I know who they are? I spend my life in a little box marked “Narcotics”; I don’t have anything to do with Black Muslims or African Uprising or whatever it is that Latomba’s into.’
‘These two white guys are saying they want their money back.’
‘Money? What goddamned money?’
‘Listen, Ralph – the money that was lost when we ambushed Jambo. It seems like somebody picked up the bag during the ambush, and now these people want it back.’
‘So that’s what happened to it,’ said Ralph, with smoke seething out from between his teeth. ‘Then why doesn’t he give it to them? Who gives a shit, once that money’s been out of our sight, it’s no longer admissible anyway. I mean, the department’s down four hundred and fifty big ones, but say-la-vee.’
‘No way, Ralph. apparently the brother who picked it up decided it was too much to share with his other brothers, and is now somewhere where his other brothers can’t immediately find him. Like, who knows, Bermuda maybe; or Las Vegas.’
‘So, tell Latomba to call the cops.’
‘Come on, Ralph, Latomba’s apartment is right in the middle of the battle zone. Latomba’s people are shooting at cops on behalf of Latomba’s dead baby, and cops are shooting back. Officially, we couldn’t mount a hostage operation on Seaver Street, without an unacceptable risk to officers and civilians. Unofficially, they wouldn’t give squat what happens to Mrs Latomba or to anyone else called Latomba.’
‘So what am I supposed to do about it?’
‘You’re supposed to give Patrice Latomba an expert helping hand in getting Mrs Latomba away from the hostage-takers, alive and well. I don’t know how well. Patrice says there’s been some screaming.’
‘Patrice wants me to help him? Who the hell is he trying to kid? I shot his baby.’
‘Exactamundo. That’s why he reckons you owe him one.’
Ralph watched Genghis Khan’s hordes galloping wildly across the Universal backlot, swords flashing.
‘Newt,’ he said, ‘there is absolutely no way. If you ask me, this whole story is nothing more than a goddamned clumsy stupid trick to get me down to Seaver Street, so that Latomba can ice me. Tell him to send me a bomb in the post, it’ll save me driving down there.’
‘He says if you can save his wife, he’ll stop the riots and won’t take out any complaints against you for what happened to little Toussaint.’
‘And what if I can’t save his wife? What if the hostage-takers blow her away? What’s he going to do then? Shake me by the hand and buy me a soul-food dinner?’
There was a lengthy, hollow silence. At last, Newt said, ‘I believe him, Ralph, as a matter of fact.’
‘You believe him? Good! But you’re not the one who has to put his mouth in the lion’s den, or whatever.’
‘Ralph – those guys have threatened to torture and kill Latomba’s wife unless they get their money.’
Ralph smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘What does he expect me to do? I can’t do any more than he can do, not without a SWAT squad. Tell him to kick the door down and go in with guns blazing. He might save his wife, he might not.’
‘You can negotiate with them, that’s what Latomba said. You can offer them some kind of deal.’
‘What deal? I’m on suspension, in case you’d forgotten. I can’t even offer them a sandwich.’
‘Okay, Ralph ... no need to get sore. I was just passing on the message.’
‘Yeah ... thanks, Newt. I’m sorry. I guess I’m feeling sorry for myself, more than anything else.’
‘It’s my day off tomorrow,’ said Newt. ‘Why don’t you and me go to the Sunset and see how many different beers we can get through?’
Ralph looked across at the photograph of Hemingway propped over the fireplace. No wonder the poor bastard had blown his brains out. In a world of fake and fear and cowardice, sometimes it seemed like the only course that a real man could take.
Nine
They drove southward down the Pilgrims’ Highway in the blurry, sunlit morning, with 1970s rock’n’roll on the radio, ‘Staying Alive’ and ‘The Air That I Breathe’ and ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful’.
Victor said, ‘I should take a vacation. I haven’t taken a vacation in years. Every day, another dead body. You know what I mean?’
‘It must be pretty depressing,’ said Michael.
‘Oh, no way, it’s not depressing. It’s just boring. You know what I mean? You’ve seen one pancreas, you’ve seen them all.’
They drove into New Seabury just before eleven, and Michael turned into his own yard and blasted the horn. Patsy immediately opened the kitchen door and came running down the wooden stairs, dressed in tight jeans and a pink checkered shirt, her hair pinned back. Michael held her tight and she felt just as warm and sexy as she’d ever felt, and she smelled of Lauren, just like she’d always smelled.
‘This is Victor Unpronounceable,’ he said at last, turning around.
‘Kurylowicz,’ said Victor, holding out his hand.
Patsy shook his hand and smiled at him. ‘It’s good to meet you. Michael told me all about you, on the phone.’
‘Not the truth, I hope.’
‘He said you were a friend.’
They climbed the steps to the kitchen, and then walked through to the living-room, with its two worn-out sofas and its jumble-sale chairs; its stunning blue-and-white view of the ocean. ‘You want coffee?’ Patsy asked Michael. Her eyes were bright because she was so pleased to see him.
‘That’d be great,’ said Michael.
After Patsy had gone through to the kitchen, Victor said, ‘Look at this place. It’s beautiful. God knows why you want to work in the city.’
‘Lack of income,’ said Michael. ‘Otherwise, wild horses couldn’t drag me away.’
‘How’re you feeling?’ asked Victor.
‘Unbalanced, if you want to know the truth.’
‘You’re going to see that shrink of yours?’
‘Sure, this afternoon.’
‘That hypnotism ... that really helps?’
‘For sure. It’s like living out your worst nightmares. You live them, you walk around in them, you get to know them, you learn to deal with them ... the same way that you learned to deal with death.’
Victor smiled, and looked out toward the sea. ‘You know what my old man said to me, before he died? He said, “For Christ’s sake, don’t let Uncle Kazyk put lipstick on me. I don’t want to be buried looking like your Aunt Krysta.” We laughed so much we practically cried; then we cried anyway. Well, he had cancer.’
‘What made you move here from Newark?’
‘Nothing, in particular. This job was on offer, so I came.’
‘You’re not married?’
He shook his head. ‘When you’ve seen what’s inside of people, it’s difficult to have any kind of physical relationship with them. It makes you kind of distance yourself, if you know what I mean.’
Patsy came back with the coffee. She poured it out, and then she sat close to Michael and kissed his cheek. ‘I called you this morning,’ she said, ‘but you’d already left.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I was a little worried. There were two guys hanging around on the opposite side of the street. They looked as if they were watching the house. I thought of calling the police, but I looked out about ten minutes later and they were gone.’
‘What did they look like?’ asked Michael.
‘I don’t know ... strange. One of them was dressed all in black and the other one was dressed in grey. They both wore sunglasses so you couldn’t really tell what their faces looked like. All I could really see was that their faces were terribly pale. You know, almost albino.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Ah well, we get all kinds around here. A whole limousine-load of mobsters came down once, and sat on the beach in their vicuna overcoats and their Gucci shoes and smoked cigars. Then they all drove away again.’
‘These two didn’t look like burglars or
anything,’ said Patsy. ‘But they worried me, I’m not sure why.’
‘Well, call the cops if you ever see them again.’
‘There was something else. Late last night somebody phoned three times, a man. I told him he had the wrong number, but he kept calling back.’
‘Did he say what number he wanted?’
Patsy said, ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Did he sound like anybody you know?’
‘Unh-hunh.’
‘He didn’t say anything obscene?’
‘No, not at all. But he was so insistent, he kept on asking for Mr Hillary.’
Michael stared at her. A chilly prickling feeling crept down his back. ‘Mr Hillary? Are you sure?’
‘That’s what he said. “I want to speak to Mr Hillary.” ‘
Michael frowned. Mr Hillary. That was the name the blind man had mentioned, when he was walking across Copley Place. It was too much of a coincidence for two references to have been made to ‘Mr Hillary’ accidentally, in such a short space of time, and so gratuitously, too.
‘Anything wrong?’ asked Victor, sipping coffee.
‘I don’t know ... I’ve heard that name before, that’s all.’
‘Weird,’ Victor remarked.
Victor and Patsy went shopping in Hyannis while Michael went to visit Dr Rice. It was a sparkling, sunny afternoon, with a brisk wind blowing, and the clouds racing across the sky like frisky sheep. Dr Rice kept him waiting for over twenty minutes, and when he opened the door of his office, a middle-aged woman with a scarlet face and an orange linen suit came hurrying out, her eyes red and her mascara blotchy.
‘Sorry to have kept you, Michael,’ said Dr Rice. He was looking unusually casual today, in a yellow short-sleeved shirt and checkered blue golfing trousers and white loafers with tassels. ‘Excuse the attire. I’m playing at Chatham this afternoon. Psychiatrists vs. dentists. We should lick them hollow.’
Michael sat down in the chrome-and-canvas chair. The arm had been straightened since his last therapy. Dr Rice went to the window and adjusted the blinds so that the office was plunged into brownish gloom.
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